


Happy Hour

by Chibiness87



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, NSFW, Sparky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibiness87/pseuds/Chibiness87
Summary: It starts with a request for a screwdriver, and ends with a slow comfortable screw against the wall.





	Happy Hour

**Author's Note:**

> *sigh* I wrote a smut story. This started off as a line hastily scribbled down on a scrap piece of paper while taxiing down a runway. Because my muse thinks it’s funny to come up with ideas when I have no way of getting them down in a timely manner.

**Happy hour** , by **chibiness87**  
**Rating** : **E**  
**Season/Spoilers:** none  
**Pairing** : Sparky  
**Disclaimer** : not mine

* * *

 

He blinks at her. “Come again?”

“A screwdriver.”

“Yeah, I heard what you said. I just… why do you want a screwdriver?”

She looks at him. Raises an eyebrow. Slowly, “For driving in screws.”

Eye roll. “I guessed that.”

She shrugs. “I want to put up some shelves.”

“You want to put up some shelves?”

Is she speaking a different language all of a sudden? “Yes, John, I want to put up some shelves.”

“Okay.” He nods. Glances around. “Where?”

“Huh?”

“Well,” he shrugs, “it’s just, your walls are kind of, um, glass.” He even points to them, like that makes his point any clearer.

“Not here. In my room.”

“Oh.”

Silence. After a long pause: “So, do you?”

“Do I?”

“Have a screwdriver?”

“Um… I’m not sure. I’ll go check.” And he leaves.

Shaking her head, she goes back to the reports on her desk. Her busy, slightly overflowing with paper and folders and all manner of other important things desk. Now that they have a sure way of contacting Earth, the top brass have apparently rediscovered their love of the processed tree. Which is all well and good for them in their big offices with their big filing cabinets in big store rooms, but here, two galaxies and a few hundred lightyears away, she’s got very limited space.

She wonders if the Ancients ever had this problem. Based on the number of depositaries they have encountered over the years, she doesn’t think so.

With a sigh, she gets back to trying to clear some of the more pressing reports from her desk.

* * *

“Have you moved since I left?”

His voice startles her, and her head comes up quickly and ow, okay, apparently she’s been at her desk for a while. The latest figures from the expenditure report she’s been compiling are still at the forefront of her brain, and all she manages is, “Huh?”

John smiles. The small one, that flirts with the corner of his mouth when he’s amused but trying hard not to show it. Not that she’s categorised his smiles.

He shakes his head at her, eyes warm with mirth and fondness and something else. Something more.

“C’mon.” He steps forward, takes the pen from her grasp, closing the report as he does so. Her mouth opens to protest, but he just shakes his head at her. “You need a break.” He quirks his mouth at her. “’Sides, I found a screwdriver.” He pauses. Tilts his head to one side. “Or well, this galaxy’s version of one, anyway.”

Intrigued more than anything, she stands. His hand drifts to the small of her back for a moment, the contact so fleeting she wonders if it was there at all. He smiles at her again, delight lighting his eyes at her ease of compliance. It makes him look younger. More carefree. She wonders what she can do to make it appear more often.

* * *

“Here.”

They’re in his room. Taking the offered glass, she looks at the bright pink liquid with a dubious frown. “What’s this?”

“A screwdriver.” He smirks for a second, before the grin slides from his face. “Well, I mean Teyla brought a bottle of their moonshine over, and it’s got those fruit things Lorne picked up last week, so it’s not quite right in the strictest sense of the word, but it kinda works.”

She sighs. “John…”

“It won’t kill you.” And he gives her that look, the one that makes him look like bit like a sad puppy. “C’mon,” he waves his own glass at her, “live a little.”

She sighs. Takes a sip. He’s right in that it’s not quite right. The alcohol is strong, and the fruit is both sweet and bitter, and she did want to put up shelves, but it’s nice for him to have thought of it all the same.

She smiles at him. Steps closer, presses a kiss to his cheek in thanks. It’s nothing she hasn’t done before. But something this time makes her freeze. Standing in his room, the contact feels too close, too much. She can feel the heat of his body, and the _something more_ rears up and takes over.

One second, they’re standing there with homebrewed cocktails, the next she’s pressed against him, mouths fighting for dominance, hot and wild and desperate.

They break apart, minutes or hours or days later, gasping for air, and then his mouth trails hot kisses down her throat, finding all the sensitive spots she pretends she doesn’t have. Helpless under his onslaught, she tilts her head to the side, hands coming up to thread and grasp the always messy stands on his head. He lets out a growl at that, his mouth landing back on hers with intent.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there, devouring each other, but at some point they have moved, and her back is now pressed against the cool wall, and her chest is pressed against the burning heat of his own. The dichotomy of sensations heightens her arousal, so much so it takes her a moment to realise he’s gentling their kiss. Finally releasing her, he rests his head in the crook between her shoulder and her neck. She can feel his breath against the still tender skin, fluttering and setting her nerves on edge.

Christ, if that’s what he can do to her with his mouth, she wonders what else other parts of him will be able to do.

He looks at her. Eyes dark and desire filled. She can feel his length against her, so it completely surprises her when he leans down to murmur in her ear, “I want to go slow.”

 _Slow_? They have been dancing around this thing for months. Years. But there’s something she can’t quite read in his eye, something that begs her to trust him, and that has never been a problem before. So; “Okay.”

He smiles. Leans in, presses his mouth to hers gently. This kiss is soft. Tender. Achingly more intimate than when his tongue was down her throat.

Slow.

She can do slow.

* * *

 

Twenty three minutes later, she’s pressed against the wall, pants gone, bra pushed up, panties slipped to the side. His cock has found a particular point within her that makes her gasp and groan, and he’s making a point on hitting it. Again. And again.

His hand flicked over the hard bud of a nipple, making her clench tighter against him, and he smirks at her. Presses deep, making her toes curl. She’s so turned on she can taste the orgasm, but he’s moving too slowly for her to come.

She just needs a little more.

Prying one hand loose from his hair, she slides it down her body, intent on driving herself over the line, but his hand catches it before she can make contact. “No.”

His voice sends another bolt through her. She’d thought she’d known all his tones, but that was before. Now, she knows what he sounds like when he’s slipping his fingers through her wet folds, when he’s pushing his heavy cock into her. Honey over gravel, deep and rasping.

Christ, she needs to come.

She tells him that. Gets a grunt in return. “We said,” he growls, pulling out slightly only to push back in, “ _slow_.” And he ducks his head. Presses his teeth against her neck, not biting, but a ghost of a threat and a promise.

She whimpers.

“Don’t want to rush this.” Another slow thrust. He hitches her leg slightly higher. Slides impossibly further in. She feels so full. He rocks against her for a moment, sending yet more nerves into overdrive. “After all,” he groans, pressing deep once more, “good things come to those who wait.”

She wants to point out she _has_ waited. For months. Years. Christ, _glaciers_ have moved faster. But as she opens her mouth he brushes over her clit while his cock brushes against _that_ spot, and it all she can do to draw breath.

“You’re close.” She wants to laugh. Because, seriously? But he swipes his thumb over the head of her clitoris once more, and it comes out as a cry instead.

He grins at her. Feral. Deep and hungry. She feels pinned to the wall. She _is_ pinned to the wall. Another thrust, quicker this time. “Say it.”

Words beyond her, she can only nod, gasping. Hands grasping at the little skin she’s managed to expose.

“You gonna come for me?”

He twists his hips slightly, changing the angle of his penetration. There’s definite speed to his movements now. A rhythm building. She nods. Moans. Eyes slipping closed. She’s past the point of no return. She’s going to come, and come hard.

He must be able to tell, because he starts thrusting in earnest. “Yeah. C’mon, ‘Liz’beth, come for me.”

One more thrust, one more swipe, and then his teeth on her nipple and it’s too much, and she breaks. Sparks flying, sensory overload. Dimly, she’s aware of him giving his own cry, and then the unmistakable feeling of his own release bathing her walls.

They sink to the ground in an untidy display of limbs, neither of them able to hold their weight up. The movement jostles him, and she lets out a gasp at the sensation of his softening cock slipping free. Leaning her head back against the wall, she turns so she’s facing him. “What happened to slow?”

He shrugs. “I got distracted.”

She lets out a huff of laughter.

“’Sides, I didn’t exactly hear you complaining.”

Well, no, there is that.

He yawns. It’s a little endearing. “I’ll help you put up those shelves tomorrow, by the way.”

She shakes her head. “I still need a screwdriver.”

“Oh. Right.” He pauses. Shrugs. “I’ll ask around.”

* * *

End

Thoughts?

 


End file.
